Words in her mouth
by Clouffie
Summary: A series of drabbles using the word of the day. Probably mostly going to be LarxenexNamine but I will write most pairings if inspired.
1. Panoply

Panoply: a splendid or impressive array.

Pictures lined every wall and were even creeping towards the ceiling. Three walls were of various figures in black, or the Keyblade wielder and his associates. But the other wall had only one subject – or rather one subject and the artist.

The subject; a slim woman, usually glaring hatefully out of the paper. Her eyes were a vindictive blue and her thin mouth a peach smear. Blond hair slicked back across her forehead was neat except for two strands that arched away from her skull. She wore the same black robes as the people on the other walls, but she was more gracefully angled – she was lighter and more delicate- looking but not weak.

Larxene was not and had probably never _ever_ been weak Every picture managed to convey that, even drawn in the blunt and waxy crayons that were the only materials allowed to the artist. It was some turn of the face, some twist of the posture that showed her for what she was – a predator.

Not that the thought of being a predator disturbed her – she fed off it and revelled in it. Nobody and nothing would crunch her up and kick her down; that was Larxene's speciality alone. To break people and use the pieces to drive the hurt a little deeper so that it would fester before it healed – after it healed as well if she felt like really ripping into someone.

Namine knew firsthand what being ripped into by Larxene was like; the first time she had been bruised for a week. A violent slap had sent her to the floor and she tasted blood on her lips. Larxene had sneered down at her; "about time you got some colour in that pretty face of yours little artist." But she had used the colour to her advantage; as the bruise faded from blue-black to green to yellow Namine had drawn bruises down Larxene's arms and legs.

(and her breasts and between her hips, but who needed to know?)

When Larxene had discovered Namine's secret stash of paintings she didn't react as Namine thought she would. She didn't scream or bruise or break Namine. She just looked, red tongue wetting her lips as she thumbed through the sheaf of pain. Instead, when she was done, she looked down at Namine with wide eyes and demanded more.

So the fourth wall was covered in red wounds and weals. Pain and humiliation burned through every aspect of Larxene - in one picture she had her eyes gouged out, in another her legs were burnt beyond repair and every time Larxene came by she looked at them and demanded more with her twisted little predator smile that tasted like anger and metal in Namine's head.

As she carefully shaded the curves of the predator's breasts Namine reflected that Larxene was not the only panoply of violence around.


	2. Esoteric

Esoteric, adj. 1. Difficult to understand.

He wakes up. He receives his mission for the day. He completes it. He sees the superior. He sleeps.

There are no more 2 am music sessions that get him chased down the halls. No more cuddles in corners or jokes at Xemnas' expense. No life in him at all; the perfect definition of a nobody.

But Axel knows that feeling is possible, if you work at it, and the musician knows too. Anger and laughter spill over the edges of blankness which is all they knew at the beginning. But Xemnas preaches that emotion is obsolete and they hide it, until Demyx starts hiding them a little too well.

Axel can't understand it. How can you not get angry when you get a mission a day? How can you not spit in the superior's face when he caresses your cheek? If he touched Axel, no matter how high up in the food chain he was, Axel would writhe away from his touch and burn him down to ash.

Axel can see bruises peeping out of his sleeves like badly-drawn tattoos. But when the others brush against him, even though it must hurt, he does nothing. He doesn't react at all and that drives Axel absolutely _nuts. _Once Axel just went up to him and squeezed his wrist, as if offering to be friendly. There was no flinch, no sharp intake of breath. That just made Axel feel worse.

And one day the redhead has had enough. As his target walked out of the door Axel grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and tows him through a portal into Namine's room (He told the witch to beat it for a day. Larxene was all too happy to assist, he was sure he really didn't want to know why.)

He growls between his teeth and forcefully strips off his robes. Bruises and welts in various stages of healing littered the thin body in front of him. A particularly nasty bruise on his chest is turning yellow like a malignant sunburst. A thick weal winds around the waist, deep into the flesh.

Axel is not content. He pulls off the standard black gloves and boots only to discover a plethora of burn-scars on his pale pianist fingers. Axel straightens up slowly, staring him in the eye. And he finally, _finally_ gets a reaction. Those pale eyes wince away from his.

"Why?" He asks after months and months of watching and wondering. "How can you let him do this to you? How can you not care about it, how can you feel nothing?"

Finally the slender form in front of him opens his mouth, eyes glistening venomously at him. "How can you say that? What makes you think that I don't care about this?" Realizing his mistake he opens his eyes wide and grabs for the black robe tangled on the floor like an immobile heartless. But Axel grabs him, avoiding the various marks of pain around his arms. "Explain. Now." Blunt and to the point like Axel himself.

And it all comes out. The threats to Axel and to Roxas. The sly manipulation that oozed from the superior. Every single lie and hurt came tumbling out.

And suddenly Demyx isn't so esoteric any more.

--

A/N. Please let me know if there is a pairing you want me to write - I need to improve; so this series is a sort of practice run before I start an actual fic with a plot (dun dun dun) and everything. So please tell me; anything goes!


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